June 10, 2024 ~ Monday (a lovely cool evening)
I was going through my writing portfolio last night and came upon a story that I wrote in early 2021. I posted this on this blog in April of that year. And, I suppose, as is the case with anyone who writes … every once in a while we’ll write something that surprises even ourselves. This is one such story. Where did this come from? I haven’t entered a competition in quite some time – need to again – but this was from one such writing competition I entered that year.
The competition had 6100 entrants from around the world. We were each given a group (218 groups) and three parameters to meet. My group was given: art teacher/ghost story/therapy … and the story needed to be 2500 words. We had the weekend to submit.
The top 5 writers from each group would then continue on and compete in Round #2 with more parameters to meet … and a shorter time frame to write … until a winner was declared. I didn’t make the top 5 in my group … but came in at #8 and got an Honorable Mention. This is one of my favorite pieces.
Going Forward …
Lily was in a mood. It was Tuesday and her afternoon to volunteer at the Senior Center. Like she didn’t have a million other things to do but she had promised herself she’d give it a go. Promised to keep the New Year’s resolution of volunteering and getting out of her own head. She’d abandoned the same resolution twice before, but it was 2019 and she felt a greater need to stick with it. She needed to feel good. Do something nice. Give back. Heal her heart. Go forward. All that stuff. And, who knew what the future would bring next year? And yet, as she gathered her supplies, she grumbled under her breath. And to dampen her spirits, quite literally, even more … it was raining.
“Why is it always raining?” she yelled at the sky. Lily kicked the car door closed while juggling her laundry basket of paints and brushes, her open purse slung over her shoulder, unaware of things falling out and leaving a trail of lipstick, tissues and the entire contents of her wallet in a soggy wake as she hurried along.
Walter was walking along the sidewalk and watched the scene unfold. He watched Lily kick the car door and the contents spill from her purse, leaving behind a line of personal detritus from the curb to the Center’s door. He stooped down, gathered up the items and carried them inside.
“I do believe these are yours,” he said as he held out his hands to Lily. “They fell from your purse. You’ll see – it’s all there.”
Flustered, Lily grabbed, a little too brusquely, at her belongings, “Oh, dammit!” she spewed, “I’m sorry. Thank you so much, Mr. …?”
“Ferguson. But, please, call me Walter. Looks like you could use a hand.”
“Nice to meet you and thanks again. I’m Lily Davenport. Are you here for today’s class?”
He looked at her rather blankly. “I was always meaning to drop in but never got around to it. I guess today’s as good a day as any.”
The two of them hung up their dripping coats. No one else was in the room yet so Lily invited him to help her unload the basket and set up. Lily liked him immediately. He was like everyone’s vision of a kindly Grandpa.
The staff at the Senior Center had the room almost ready … there were long tables with chairs and empty spaces for those who’d arrive in wheelchairs. A few easels were also around the room for those who wanted to stand. Lily and Walter put out the paints, papers, brushes and water tins and in no time were ready for the group to arrive.
“I volunteer here … on Tuesdays we paint. Do you paint, Walter?
“No … can’t say I’ve ever painted – nothin’ but my house. Seems I’ve got nothin’ but time on my hands these days – might as well give it a shot.” He rubbed his hands together trying to draw the ache and coldness out. “It sure is nice and cozy in here; for the past month or so I’ve been having a tough time getting the chill out of me.”
Lily looked over at him and agreed, “It’s been an unusually cold and wet month. But spring’s almost here.”
Walter walked over to the front window and watched the rain. He looked back at Lily with rheumy, pale gray eyes that held years of experience, knowledge and the sorrow of deep loss. Lily held his gaze and felt the crush of loneliness and isolation. She knew what heartache looked and felt like.
“I’m coming to terms with a death,” he blurted out.
Lily came towards him and patted his arm. “I’m so sorry, Walter. Loss is hard. Grief is complicated. But you’re here now and maybe it’ll make you feel a bit better. I’m really glad you are joining us today. If nothing else, art seems to be good therapy for a lot of people, and it seems to help in a multitude of ways. I’ve even heard it helps release the soul.” She smiled and patted his arm once more. Her heart knew his pain.
The afternoon’s art class went along as all of the other ones had gone along since she had begun holding them at the Center … almost three months in and it was a lot of compliments and encouragement, small talk and spreading newspapers. Lots of picking up dropped brushes and wiping of spills. Lorelei tried to drink the brush water again. Lily was thinking this might not be the best class for her anymore. Max sat with a brush in his hand … staring off into space … the green paint dripping onto the paper. He was getting worse. Mr. Johnson painted a sun. Elaine said it was an orange and his feelings were hurt. An argument ensued and they were escorted to the snack room. Every week the same. Some days Lily struggled with her resolve to continue coming. Her friends agreed this would be good therapy for her. Get her mind somewhere else. Loss is hard. Grief is complicated. Some days she just wasn’t so sure it was worth it.
But today … there was Walter.
Walter must have done a remarkable job painting his home because his artwork was amazingly good. He stood at one of the easels and painted a landscape … pine trees off to the right; to the left, down a small embankment – cattails edged a small pond, a few ducks seemed to glide along. Across the pond was an empty bench facing the water, a few tulips bloomed nearby against the background of lushness of some overgrown garden. It was lovely. He had depth and contrast and a fine stroke. She was thinking that he was pulling her leg when he said he hadn’t painted before. This was truly done by someone with talent!
As Walter was cleaning up, Lily stood looking at his painting, “Walter, you’ve surely painted before. This is wonderful,” she remarked.
He chuckled and smiled, “I’m actually amazed at what came out of me. Honestly, I’ve never painted. My wife was a music teacher but crafty. She was always trying for me to do something with her but I always said that was her baby, not mine. Maybe I was wrong.” Lily collected the paintings and hung them on the clothesline to dry … she’d give them back to their Tuesday artist-owners the following week.
And that’s how it went … pretty much … for the next few months. Except, Max and Lorelei no longer came to class. Mr. Johnson and Elaine had started dating. And Walter came every Tuesday and painted the same scene. No matter how many times Lily tried to persuade him to do a still life or a sunset – his paintings came out almost exactly the same every week. A deeper pine green one week … more shadows or an extra duck the next. The tulips were replaced by dandelions as spring gave way to summer. But, for the most part, the sameness was uncanny.
One Tuesday in August Lily finally asked, “Walter, I just have to know, after all this time, why do you paint this scene every week?”
Walter chuckled a bit and said, “I don’t know. Your guess is as good as mine. I just paint what I see.”
“Well, it sure is peaceful,” she added as she gathered up the brushes.
“Yeah, it’s peaceful alright,” he sighed.
Lily and Walter continued with nothing more than polite conversation during their Tuesday afternoons. No personal chatter. No cups of coffee after class. No nothing. She didn’t know why
neither one of them extended themselves, but they didn’t. She didn’t know what his occupation had been. Didn’t know how long he had been married or if he had kids. Didn’t know where his home was – though she supposed nearby as he always walked to the Center. Actually, over the last few months Walter had gotten quieter – as if talking took a lot out of him to do so. He offered up no more information about himself but seemed genuinely pleased to be spending his Tuesday afternoons in that manner. And Lily found that she, too, was as well. She felt lighter, happier than she’d been in a long time and found she was no longer grumbling as she parked her car on those volunteer Tuesdays. Maybe this was good therapy. She actually looked forward to helping the senior members explore their creative sides. Mr. Johnson’s suns were looking more realistic. Elaine started painting oranges. And every week Walter got quieter and painted the same scene.
Another month went by. It was now autumn and on those Tuesdays Lily brought in colorful fallen leaves, a few pumpkins, acorns she had gathered, some twigs. She thought people might like to paint them or add them into some scene of their own choosing. Walter did not. He was a one-and-done kind of guy. But he always seemed contented with the outcome of his work.
“Walter, the pond looks darker today,” Lily told him as she stood looking at the finished painting one afternoon.
“Storm’s comin’,” he replied.
The next week there were no ducks in the painting. “Walter, you forgot the ducks,” Lily said, looking at him questioningly.
“They flew South,” he remarked.
And so it went. October turned into November which then slid into December. The pumpkins and turkeys that she brought to class changed to bowls of ornaments and branches covered in moss.
One Tuesday Walter breathed softly, “This is perfect.”
Lily looked at the painting and it looked almost exactly like all the others he had painted in the past months … except some of the cattails were fatter or blown, their stalks and leaves tawny and bent. A few of them had what looked like frost on them. But, for the most part, it was the same painting … but she agreed with him and said, “You’re right, Walter. This one is perfect.”
The next Tuesday the rains returned but Walter did not. The following week, Tuesday came and went and no Walter. Lily hoped she’d see him come through the door, but he did not. She wondered and worried about him and was saddened by his absence. She had hung his last painting on the wall … she and it were waiting for him. On her way out the door she remembered that Walter had told her of some pink berry bushes a few blocks from the Center. “‘They’d be nice to paint,'” he had said. Always on the lookout for something natural to bring in, Lily thought that pink berries would be lovely this time of year. She chastised herself for not going weeks earlier and headed in the direction he had told her – zig zagging along the curvy streets through a tidy neighborhood of small homes and manicured yards. She was looking for the pink berry bushes when out of the corner of her eye came a most familiar scene … to her right was a green space with pine trees and a pond!
Lily couldn’t believe her eyes! She pulled her car over and ran to the sidewalk that encircled what seemed to be a small neighborhood park. “It’s all here!” she blurted out. “Oh my God. Everything is just as he painted it.” There were bushes to her right and across the lawn and before her was the stand of pine trees and down the sloped lawn to the left lay the pond – encircled by cattails – now, all blown out and scraggly.
This is amazing! she thought as she looked about. “This is Walter’s painting!” she said out loud. There was no one there to hear her – not even a duck – just the wind through the pines. Lily walked from the sidewalk, under the trees’ naked winter branches and stood looking at it all. And there, on the other side of the pond, was the bench. She walked down the grass and around the pond – twirling around and taking it all in.
She walked through the wet grass to the bench and sat down. She leaned back; the bench had a good feel … old, weathered and comfortable. Kind of like Walter. She sat for a while looking over the pond and the pines – amazed that she was sitting there. It was truly lovely. It was just as he had painted. She missed him but as she sat there, taking in the scene that had become so familiar to her, she felt peace settle in her at last. It had been a difficult few years but she finally felt she was ready to go forward. A new year loomed in just a few weeks – what would 2020 bring?
She sat for a while looking out over the pond, breathing in the winter air when she noticed what looked like a small fenced in area near the stand of pines. It had never shown up in Walter’s paintings. She thought perhaps it was the pond’s pump station but being curious, she got up and walked around the pond towards it; realizing as she got closer that that was the vantage point of all Walter’s paintings – his vision was from that spot.
As she neared it, she was surprised to realize that this small square of wrought iron fencing was not what she thought but enclosed a small cemeterial plot with half a dozen ornately carved headstones. The grass over these gravesites was lush and green and the headstones were worn and weathered and had been there a long time. All except one – the last one was newer. She could tell as the headstone was whiter, not as worn by the elements. She walked up to the end of the fence and as she leaned in against the wrought iron to read the words, she let out a gasp …
In Loving Memory * Walter Randolph Ferguson * Everyone’s Beloved Grandpa * January 18, 1932 – February 23, 2019
